Bottlecaps.
Paper straws, plastic cups.
Ketchup packets, candy wrappers.
Band-aids, hair ties.
A fork with a broken-off tine.
Tobacco cigarette butts - by a "no smoking" sign.
A pair of sunglasses, a Little Mermaid figurine, a toy truck.
The throngs have gone, and this is what they've left behind today.
Yesterday: A swallow stick.
The ocean leaves things behind too, regurgitates seashells, parrotfish-digested coral, algae, gorgonie.
The trees contribute - perhaps with some help - coconut shells, miracle fruit, seagrape leaves, deadly apples.
The usual walkers come and go, smile and wave, exchange words.
The stray dog wanders out sensing dinnertime. The mongoose sniff for leftovers. The iguanas were already there.
The sun begins to dip behind the hillside, and the sky blushes to sailors' delight.
The sound of the waves permeates.
A dove coos (Columbidae - dove, pigeon; Kolumbos - dive, swim, plunge; Columbus - sail, plunder).
Soon the whistling frog chorus will begin again.
Though nearly alone, my footsteps are merely the last of many.
The sand mutes their impact, but the beach hears the echo of footfalls past and future.
For the use of the people of these nominally virgin islands, in perpetuity.